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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032342">A Cop walks into a bar</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingCroweOfCamelot/pseuds/KingCroweOfCamelot'>KingCroweOfCamelot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Grand Theft Auto V</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, Depressed Michael, During Game, I Fought the Law, M/M, North Yankton, Oral Sex, Roleplay, They dress up as cops, Trevor being a good friend, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:34:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingCroweOfCamelot/pseuds/KingCroweOfCamelot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, what's goin' on?" He asked, stepping closer to the group of four already assembled. A brief glance at Franklin, before turning to Trevor who had started to answer his question before anyone else.</p><p>"Oh hohoo, you finally get to realise your childhood dream and dress up as a cop!"</p><p>Michael rolled his eyes. Yeah, like that dream ever lasted. People like him weren't cops.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Cop walks into a bar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-   1990   -</p><p>Silence. </p><p>Silence was something Michael wasn't used to. And this was as close as he ever really got to it. The low rattle of the cheap motel air conditioning unit, the steady drip of the bathroom tap, the muttering of a TV left on in some other room, the gentle breathy rise and fall of Trevor's chest as he slept next to him. The clock ticked, letting him know it was some obscure hour of the morning, the snow outside crunching under the foot of a raccoon or a fox or some other solitary animal treading towards the dumpster. They weren't too far away from the main road, and he could hear the odd car travelling past in the night. </p><p>So it wasn't silent at all. But for Michael, it was quiet enough to send his mind thinking.</p><p>Michael was a thinker. Not in some lofty or pompous theological way, where he would sprout a moustache and glasses and invent a cure for all diseases. No, in a much more reflective, contemplative, almost depressive, kind of way. </p><p>He had been all his life - thinking too much at the wrong times and never at the right times. Never before he found himself in fights or failing school. Always when he struggled to sleep, fell prey to insomnia and lingered on the past. </p><p>In twenty years, thanks to the glorious technical innovation of the mobile phone, he wouldn't have these thinking troubles at night. He could stay up all night watching his classic movies on a tiny screen in bed, have access to all the porn a man could desire, throw irate birds at green pigs just to pass the time. But twenty years in the future was not now. Now was 1990. Now was a scummy mid-west motel. Now was Trevor drooling on the pillow next to him. Now was insomnia and his nightly quarter-life crisis at the grand age of 25. </p><p>What could he have been? What did the world have in store for him before he fucked it all up? Maybe not knowing was worse.</p><p>He glanced at Trevor, sleeping peacefully, not able to make out much of his face in the dark. Sleeping soundly, innocently, as if they had not just held up a liquor store half a day before.</p><p>Trevor never had the same issues as Michael. He never felt guilty for the path life had led him down, expressed only anger at the doors that had closed along the way. He seemed to have no regrets. At peace with the fact they were bad men, doing bad things for bad reasons. As tortured as Trevor's mind was, he had never been one to torture himself.</p><p>That's where they differed. Michael had always seen himself as the good guy, the protagonist in his story. The one doing the right thing for the right reason, and it would all work out alright in the end. That's how the films went - his film heroes were flawed, sure, and did bad things, absolutely, but they were never <em>bad. </em>Surely Michael doing bad things didn't make him a <em>bad guy</em>. How bad could he be when he harboured this growing guilt in his soul?</p><p>He wasn't guilty about the people they hurt or the things they stole. Maybe he was a little guilty that he wasn't guilty about that. Instead, he felt guilt that he wasn't who he <em>should </em>have been. He wasn't born a criminal. He didn't really feel like a criminal. It was hard for him to explain, even as the ideas rolled around in his head for hours on end, he never reached the conclusion he needed. And in the morning he'd splash some water on his face, shake the feelings out of his head, and move on, do the exact same things with his friend as always. Cocaine and alcohol would help. Cigarettes and shitty takeout food would do too. The rush of adrenaline when he held a gun pointed at someone's face seemed to solve every problem he had ever had. </p><p>That was the issue. He enjoyed it, but thought too much. Trevor enjoyed it too and didn't think. Trevor lived in the now, the present, he experienced all of his feelings and every sight, sound and touch. Michael thought about the past and the future, sometimes stumbling from day to day simply to get to the next. Trevor wasn't like that. </p><p>Michael sat up in the bed, pushing the covers over onto his sleeping friend. A sigh, his broad shoulders slumped, arching downwards as he pressed on the bed to push himself into standing. Sharp features, sharp edges of his body, his figure was something to look at - but not visible in this light or in his baggy sweats to keep the mid-western cold out. He reached for his cigarette carton that he left on the side table, pulling one out to stick between his teeth as he lit it. Maybe one day this habit would catch up with him and he'd find his blackened lungs sending a taxed heart into overdrive in front of his future wife and children around the dinner table who'd try their best to resuscitate him. Maybe one day he'd be alone, fall to one knee as he clutched at his chest and not be found for several days. Maybe one day he'd spend weeks in hospital trying to get rid of the disease he'd brought on himself, passing away in pain and discomfort, with enough time to plan a funeral that he knew nobody would come to.</p><p>Maybe. Fucking maybe. Everything was a fucking maybe. It was all he could fucking think of.</p><p>He rubbed at his eyes with rough knuckles in frustration as the smoke gently spiralled upwards. A grey lithe snake, it curled softly upwards, seeking a way out of this stuffy room. He watched with another sigh.</p><p>"Hey big guy."</p><p>The hoarse voice from behind made Michael jump, the hairs on his neck sticking up as he spun round to see the outline of Trevor's figure propped up on the bed, staring at him with those beady bright eyes, able to catch the light and shine despite the darkness around them. </p><p>A low chuckle. "Didn't mean to frighten ya, cowboy. What'ya thinking about, eh?"</p><p>Of course Trevor knew he was thinking. Why else would he be sulking with a cigarette in their mouth at three AM like that? They'd had enough drunken and high discussions about life and its meaning for Trevor to know the inside of Michael's head like his own.</p><p>"Nothin', T. Didn't mean to wake you up. Sorry." Michael's voice was croaky. He needed a drink of water.</p><p>"Hey, no worries. Come back to bed, sugar."</p><p>A half-hearted laugh from Michael at Trevor's attempts to lighten the mood. That strange-flirty-creepy thing he did, making him sound like a leery drunk and a kind old dinner lady at the same time. It should annoy him or put him off - Michael was certainly no homosexual - but in reality it was oddly comforting. Big guy. Cowboy. Sugartits. Cupcake. Pork-chop. Why did that not annoy him? Those names really should annoy him. </p><p>"Just can't sleep tonight, Trev." </p><p>"Yeah, I guessed that. You wanna talk, or are ya gonna sulk like a lonely little pup all night, eh?"</p><p>Another half-hearted laugh. Michael took a seat on the edge of the bed again. He felt a hand begin to rub his back.</p><p>"I just... I dunno, man. I..." Michael started, as usual the words in his head running away from his tongue as he tried to express them. "... I just... This ain't the life I want."</p><p>"Well, it's the life you love, Mikey. It's the life you're good at."</p><p>How right Trevor was. The most annoying thing about him was that he always seemed to be right. The truth had a way of revealing itself to Trevor while it was stabbing Michael in the back. Michael was good at what they did - one of the best - and he never felt better than when they were doing it.</p><p>"... You know, T... I always wanted to be a cop when I was a kid. I always thought I would be a good guy."</p><p>Trevor laughed lightly. "You do like donuts."</p><p>"No." He sighed, defeated tone. "I'm serious. I had a dress-up costume and everythin'.... Only when I made quarterback did I think of somethin' else."</p><p>Trevor quietened down, Michael opened up so rarely. "You had a dress up costume?" He frowned. "Your ma was a stripper and your abusive-fuck-of-a-pop never had a job in his life."</p><p>"I know, you don't need to tell me. But my mom always wanted somethin' good for me. My brother was a write-off stoner, sure, but she wanted me and my sister to do good. I let her down."</p><p>"Nah, nah. Your mom loves you. We should visit her soon."</p><p>Michael rolled his eyes, flopping back down on the bed, feeling the springs of the cheap mattress underneath him. He threw the cigarette stub onto the floor - it had burnt itself out. There were a thousand burn marks on this crappy carpet anyway. </p><p>"I could've been a cop. Could've had a house by now. Wife and kids. Labrador."</p><p>"Jeez, Mikey. You're twenty five. Not fifty fucking years old." He shook his head slightly. "Come back to me when we're fifty and then you can talk like that."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-   2013   -</p><p>"So, what's goin' on?" He asked, stepping closer to the group of four already assembled. A brief glance at Franklin, before turning to Trevor who had started to answer his question before anyone else.</p><p>"Oh hohoo, you finally get to realise your childhood dream and dress up as a cop!" Trevor beamed, his hands reaching out with as much dramatic flare as usual. He stepped back as he waited for Michael's response.</p><p>Michael rolled his eyes. Yeah, like that dream ever lasted. People like him weren't cops. Why did he ever tell Trevor that stupid fucking dream when they were kids? He didn't have much time to think, his attention drawn by Molly who began to speak.</p><p>"Mr Western's research team suggests the two boys like to ride on the Senora Freeway." Her chauffeur opened the car door for her and she began to get in, her voice curt and professional as always. Her pressed suit crinkled as she slid into the backseat, getting her phone out immediately.</p><p>"Sounds manageable." Franklin shrugged.</p><p>"Hey, you two get going." Devin spoke up, shooing Michael and Trevor away.</p><p>A sigh, Michael rubbed his forehead. "Let's go, T." The dust kicked up by Molly's car tickled his nose, but did little to disturb Trevor from leering in the window to get a final look at the woman while his hand hugged his crotch. </p><p>Trevor took a few glances at Michael as they walked off together, heading towards the car that they'd take to the place they'd change. He looked heavier recently, and not really in a fat way. In that classic-deathly-depressive-Michael-Townley way. Like the world had fucked him over and he'd absolutely given up. His hair looked a little messy, stubble showing through. Darkness around his eyes - either from lack of sleep or a hangover. Knowing Michael, both probably. They reached the car, Michael's red rental, Trevor got in the passenger seat.</p><p>"Doin' a lot of thinking lately, huh Sugar?" Trevor asked, a softer voice than his usual shrill sing-song. "You look like you've been Michael-Townley-Thinking again."</p><p>Michael sighed as they started down the road towards their destination. Fuck Trevor. Always fucking reading him like that. He shifted in his seat. "Let me think in peace, Trev."</p><p>"Aahahaaa, so you <em>are</em> thinking!" A grin from the passenger. "Thinking about how you could have been a cop?"</p><p>"Shut the fuck up. I told you that years ago. I can't believe you even remember."</p><p>"Oh, I remember everything, Mikey. Everythiiiing." </p><p>He didn't respond, they travelled the rest of the way in silence. </p><p>Silence that hung heavy between them. Silence that was, as usual, not really silent. The sound of the busy roads of Los Santos were enough to keep anyone awake, especially loud when you were right in the middle of them. The car was whurring loud below them, the radio blabbering away to itself. Trevor's phone buzzed as he got a few emails in quick succession. Always a siren to be heard coming from every direction. Michael's fingernails drummed on the wheel. It must have been years since he had heard real silence. Maybe he'd never heard it all his life. Another fucking 'maybe'.</p><p>The journey was over reasonably quickly, stopping off at the arranged location. A dusty warehouse on the way to Grapeseed. Michael parked up.</p><p>"You ready to kit up, Mikey?" Trevor asked in his soft voice again, a genuine note of concern. “She’s a fool, man. So are the kids. But they’ll be back, I know it.”</p><p>Michael blinked slowly, keeping his eyes closed for a few seconds as he inhaled, feeling a blood rush to his head. Holding his breath, he opened his eyes, exhaling when it was clear he hadn’t magically teleported into his bed. A slow nod at Trevor. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles before replying. </p><p>“Thanks, T. I’m fine.”</p><p>Trevor seemed unconvinced, but nodded too. “As long as you say you are, amigo. I’m right by your side.”</p><p>And he meant it. Maybe that’s what hurt Michael the most, the fact that there was only one person by his side. Or that the one person was a psycho meth dealer. Or that he had fucked over the one person by his side all those years ago. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All of these options in his head to explain how he felt, maybe it was all of them put together. He couldn’t shake this heavy feeling off anymore, like he could when they were younger. He wanted things to make sense and they never fucking did. Now he had lost everything - his wife, his kids, his car, his ‘retirement’... He was feeling the carpet slip from under his feet as he was dragged into this spiral of work with Dave and Steve and Devin and Martin - he had no clue how it would end without a serious fuck up. A serious, serious fuck up. He dreaded to think about it.</p><p>“Come on then, pork-chop.” Trevor said, getting up out of the car and watching Michael do the same. “I wanna see those chunky thighs in skin tight khaki.”</p><p>Michael couldn’t help but laugh a little despite himself. There it was again - that weird flirting thing that he should’ve punched Trevor for years ago. Trevor grinned like a shark, watching the crinkled corners of Michael’s eyes, the upturned sides of his smile - a gentle chuckle. It was almost like getting his old friend back, a bit happier, certainly less depressed. </p><p>”Skin tight khaki?” Michael asked, brushing off some of the weariness from his brow with a smile.</p><p>”Yeah, ain’t you seen Blaine County Traffic Cop before? San Andreas Highway Patrol. Looovely uniform, Mikey, we’re gonna look delicious.”</p><p>Michael laughed again, and they headed into the warehouse, where the two bikes and two costumes were laid out. A brown paper bag sat on the seat of one of the motorbikes, and a blue helmet sat on both. Trousers, shirt, blue tie, black belt and boots... fuck, he was going to look stupid. They would both look stupid. But Michael couldn’t help but feel a little flutter in his stomach as he reached for the shirt. A hedonistic impulse to put it all on. Pretend to be someone else. </p><p>He pulled off his polo shirt and began to slip each arm into the shirt. It felt fine, a little tight round the biceps but in a confidence boosting way. He finished the buttons, turning to Trevor. “Does this look too tight?”</p><p>Trevor had taken his pants and boots off, stepping over to Michael to do up his top button for him. His fingers felt cold on Michael’s hot neck, a little too close for comfort as there was nowhere else to look but directly at him. “Nah. Looks fitted, not tight. You could’ve done with a sports bra though.” </p><p>He ignored the comment, bending down to undo his shoelaces and kick off his shoes, then begin unbuttoning his pants to swap them for the tighter uniform ones. A little bit of a squeeze to get the new pants over the thickest part of his thighs, but luckily they did up around his waist without hassle. “Have you seen these boots we have to wear? Black leather knee-high, Trevor?” </p><p>Trevor was half naked, the tan pants were on and he was fiddling with the belt. The fabric clung to his hips in a cocksure way, outlining the smooth curves of his thighs and shins, his bulge obvious and undeniable at the front of his pants. His chest bare revealing some of the horrific tattoos Michael hadn’t yet seen. Jesus Christ. </p><p>“Fuck cops? Seriously?” Michael asked, pointing at the tattoo on Trevor’s lower abdomen. </p><p>”Yeah, I fuck cops. Fat traffic cops, to be exact.”</p><p>That flirty comment wasn’t so funny. He felt a hot prickle across his cheeks, fully aware that he felt and looked pretty vulnerable in this stupid getup. No smile or laugh this time.</p><p>”Those pants look tight, Mikey.” Trevor gestured, Michael’s crotch was equally emphasised by the fabric. "You got a license for that?"</p><p>Fuck. His mouth twitched up, as he tried not to laugh at that. "You always got a fuckin' joke ready, don't ya T?" A little terseness in his voice.</p><p>"Tryna lighten the mood, Sugartits." Trevor scowled a little, taking a step closer. "You were laughing before. Don't pretend you're a-fucking-bove me, <em>Mikey</em>." He spat Michael's name, the spit flicking onto Michael's forehead. </p><p>He shook his head, stepping back from Trevor, wiping his forehead with his palm. He definitely contracted at least fifty venereal diseases from that spit alone. Gross. A deep sigh - he felt a dull ache somewhere in the back of his head that was craving for a cigarette or a cigar or nicotine of any type, turning away as Trevor finished getting ready. The air hung thick between them, the silence seemed to mock them both. The irony of their outfits was not lost on the atmosphere, a sense of adrenaline from the thrill of the impending job, a sense of futility as they chased cars for a man who definitely could just buy them. </p><p>"You know what, Michael?" Trevor pulled his blue tie up to his neck, adjusting it with a neatness that Michael hadn't seen him exude since his fucking wedding. "You're full of shit. So <em>full of shit</em>, the toilet is jealous!" </p><p>Michael raised an eyebrow adjusting his own tie. </p><p>"I do my best, <em>my goddamn best</em>, to make you a little <em>happy</em>! A little less fucking <em>depressed</em>! And what do I get back, eh? Absolutely <strong><em>fucking nothing!</em></strong>"</p><p>"Hey, I never asked for you to try!"</p><p>"But you <em>need it</em>, brother! You're rotting! Like a bad fucking egg! That plastic wife of yours hung you out to dry and <em>you let her!</em> <strong>Forgive me </strong>for trying to save my best friend from himself!"</p><p>"Save me from myself?!" Michael let out a mock laugh in indignation. "Seriously? Says the meth addict who hasn't slept in a month!"</p><p>"I have slept! And I've slept better than you! I don't have anything <strong>KEEPING ME AWAKE</strong>!"</p><p><em>Silence</em>. Michael blinked quickly, then once again slowly, opening his eyes with an exhale of breath. Trevor paced, the sound of his boots against the tarmac of the warehouse the only audible noise. No cars outside. No ticking clock. Just the two of them here. </p><p>"You've been so guilty about pretending you were dead that you're rotting. And now I'm here, all I've done is made it worse. Is that right, huh?" Spot on. Once again, the truth had come easy to him. "... No. No, that ain't right." Trevor stopped his pacing, standing still. "You could never sleep, could you, Mikey?"</p><p>Michael gulped. Who gave Trevor the authority to stab him in the chest with his words like this? </p><p>"You never could sleep. You used to stay up all night in those shitty motels. I remember well. Trevor remembers everything." Trevor tapped the side of his head with a knowing gaze. “I remember what we used to talk about. I remember what you used to say. You always wanted to be someone else, didn’t ya?"</p><p>".. Trev, you need to forget all that crap. It didn't mean anything."</p><p>"I ain't going to forget. I know you better than you know yourself, Cowboy."</p><p>Ah, another fucking nickname. Flirty, creepy, comforting, predatory, friendly Trevor was back. Back telling the truth, understanding the mess that was Michael's head better than any pathetic shrink could. His teeth flashed as he gave Michael a cocksure smile, leaning his weight onto one leg with a hand on his hip, thumb stuck into his heavy black belt. "I was there when you felt shit you had no family and no dog and no career. And I'm here again now." </p><p>Michael shook his head, no response. </p><p>"Maybe we should get you a dog, Mikey." He reached out a hand, putting it softly on Michael's upper arm. “Maybe one of those cute pet pigs. More your style.”</p><p>He huffed slightly. “... Tracey would love that.”</p><p>”Of course she would! And Jim would feel right at home too!”</p><p>Michael finally laughed a little, some of the tension alleviating from his brow. “Alright. But I’m not gonna get a pet.”</p><p>”Okay.” Trevor smiled watching Michael relax again. He spoke, his voice low and smooth like honey. “You need a boost, man. Something to make you feel like <em>Michael Townley</em> again, huh? Something to stop that dusty old brain thinking too much.”</p><p>”Right. You got any suggestions?”</p><p>”One or two. I gotta say, you look <em>tasty, </em>officer.”</p><p>Michael shook his head with a chuckle, turning to put the boots on.Trevor, however, wasn’t finished.</p><p>”Hey, Sergeant Townley! Nice to meet you. I’m Officer Philips. My first day here. Just got transferred to your department.”</p><p>The smaller man looked up at Trevor, crinkling his nose in confusion. “What the hell, T?”</p><p>”I’d love it if you could show me the ropes. You look like the guy in charge round here.”</p><p>Michael stared at him for a few seconds, utterly bewildered. Was he...? Trevor stared back, his broad shoulders clad in the thick khaki material, the blue tie high up around his neck. The shirt hung around his chest, forcing memories of Trevor’s lanky twenty-year old body into Michael’s mind. He’d changed, but so much had stayed the same. Those beady  eyes gazed at him, bright but brown, able to catch the dim light and shine. His heavy brow was lifted, making him look less murderous than usual, kinder, more sensitive. Like... like a normal guy. Like they could be neighbours in his white-picket-fence world. Like Trevor would be his best friend, his best man, they’d play golf and tennis together on weekends. He’d be godfather of his kids. Ah, fuck it. Indulge yourself, Michael.</p><p>”Yeah... I’ll show you round. I’m Michael. You can call me Mike.”</p><p>Trevor beamed. “Sure, Sergeant Townley - I mean Mike. I’m Trevor. You can call me Trev.”</p><p>”Do I recognise you? Did you just move in on our street?”</p><p>”Yeah, maybe. Are you in the one with the white fence and the yellow lab? Two kids, cute as hell, and a plain wife you could do better than?”</p><p>”That sounds like me. We must be neighbours, Trev.”</p><p>”Wooooah, neighbours and coworkers! We’re gonna be best friends, ain’t we Mike!”</p><p>”Seems like it. Although I should tell you my wife is having an affair.”</p><p>”Oh man. How awful. Some French yogi, by any chance?”</p><p>”Yeah, how did you know?!” Michael asked with a chuckle.</p><p>”Prick did the same thing to my wife.” Trevor put on a mutter, growling at the floor.</p><p>Michael laughed properly, laughing at Trevor’s act. “It’s okay, man. Anyway, I’m being a good boy while she’s away.”</p><p>”A good boy? You don’t look like a good boy, Sergeant Mike.” Trevor took a step closer.</p><p>”Really? I’m a cop. How much more ‘good boy’ can you get?”</p><p>”Good boys don’t have fun, Sergeant Mike. Believe me, I know.”</p><p>”So you’re a bad boy, Officer Trev?”</p><p>”Yeah. And I know you are too. Deep down.”</p><p>Michael gulped slightly. “That’s an inappropriate way to talk to your superior.”</p><p>”Your wife is out of town. I can talk to you however I like.” A little growl from Trevor as he took a step closer. “But let me show you how much I respect you.”</p><p>”Huh?”</p><p>”When was the last time that slut of a wife of yours sucked your cock, eh cowboy?”</p><p>Michael - stay in your role. You’re not Michael De Santa. You’re Sergeant Mike. That’s Officer Trev. He’s doing you a favour. Play the part. You’re someone else.</p><p>” I dunno, Officer. Been so long I can’t remember.” Michael blinked.</p><p>”You want me to remind you, Sergeant?” Trevor’s rough hands reached down to Michael’s belt, tugging at the buckle. </p><p>Don’t. Think.</p><p>”These pants are tight, Trev. You’ll have to get them off first.”</p><p>Trevor pushed him back against a wall with moderate strength. Heated breath, his body was warm as it pressed against Michael’s, letting the black belt hang open as he started on the button and zip of the khakis. </p><p>Oh man. What the fuck was going on?</p><p>”Where I’m from, this is what all new recruits have to do for their Sergeants on the first day.” Trevor let out that low grumble, that both terrified and excited Michael, but mostly terrified.</p><p>He bit back a joke about Canadian culture, simply looking down as Trevor tugged his trousers mid way down his thick thighs. Blue striped boxers exposed, something rather solid inside. The taller man dropped to his knees, slipping long fingers under the band of Michael’s boxers. “Oh, Sergeant... You must be...” </p><p>Trevor stopped talking as Michael was freed from the boxers. A lick of his lips almost anxiously. “Oh, Porkchop...” He groaned slightly, still staring at the full member in front of him. </p><p>Michael lost patience, feeling a spark within him that made him reach out to grab the back of Trevor’s head and thrust it towards his pelvis. An open mouth, Michael’s tip hit the back of Trevor’s throat, making him gag as he pulled away. Michael’s head tilted upwards, letting out a groan through grit teeth. Fuck. Trevor let out an almost cry, taking a moment to recover before diving in without hesitating.</p><p>His lips were rough and chapped, and he could feel the occasional tooth brushing against his cock. Trevor’s tongue wrapped circles around his length, beginning to slowly thrust his mouth back and forth. Fingers roamed his pubes, stroking anything that wasn’t currently in his mouth. </p><p>Michael’s vision was black as he clenched his eyes shut, pulses of vivid colour spiralling in and out as he closed them too tight. He could feel Trevor’s ratty hair under one hand as he guided his motion, the cool brick under the other, anchoring him to the wall. He could stay like this for hours - god knows how long it had been already.</p><p>When Trevor’s tongue pushed roughly into Michael’s slit, he felt fireworks inside. The butterflies in his stomach had set on fire. He thrust violently into Trevor’s mouth, <em>fucking </em>his mouth with force. He could hear splutters and gags, his knee jerking, his hand slapped the wall behind him. </p><p>And then Sergeant Mike was finished.</p><p>Of course Officer Trev was the type to swallow, doing so with a proud smirk on his face. </p><p>Michael panted, his hot skin sweaty and clammy, as he pulled his boxers up and began sorting himself out.</p><p>”Shit, Michael! We have to meet Franklin!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They arrived at their waiting spot in just enough time, helmets on and fully clothed. The brown paper bag that had been left on one of the bikes was in Michael’s hand. Two donuts. He chuckled as he passed Trevor one. “Looks like a present from Devin.”</p><p>”Real considerate.” Trevor hummed as he took the treat. “How you feel now, sugartits? Less depressed?”</p><p>”... Yeah.” Michael took a bite out of his donut. “Better. I feel good.”</p><p>”Didn’t I say I know you well, eh? Anyway, I’ve got a joke for you.”</p><p>”A joke? Go on.”</p><p>”A cop walks into a bar, and says-“</p><p>Trevor was cut off by Michael’s phone ringing. Franklin. <em>Hey, we’re coming up now man, be there in a few seconds!</em></p><p>“Got it.” Michael sighed, ending the call, climbing back onto his bike. “Whatever. Here they come.”</p><p>”Well, I’ll tell you about that later.” Trevor shrugged, throwing his donut on the floor, as Michael did the same.</p><p>His one time as a cop, and he didn’t get to eat a damned donut. </p><p>Ah well, better not think too much about that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>https://bullshit-maryam.tumblr.com/post/143479890526</p><p>Shout out to the discord server that made me feel like writing something for the first time in actual years! Especially to aintgonnaleaveyoumikey who reads my shitty work and always has the nicest things to say 💙💙💙</p></blockquote></div></div>
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